


Bittersweet

by silverr



Category: Saint Seiya
Genre: M/M, Mystery Characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-04-26
Updated: 2004-12-08
Packaged: 2017-10-14 05:06:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/145689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverr/pseuds/silverr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of ficlets - one per chapter - where you, the reader, can decide for yourself who's involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Claimed

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: St. Seiya is copyright Kurumada Masami and Toei. No infringement or disrespect of the intellectual property rights held by the owners of existing copyrights in Saint Seiya or its derivative works is intended by this non-profit, noncommercial amateur fan fiction.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone has their dark side. I am his.

.

I wait every night, listening for the footsteps that will tell me he's come to me again.

He doesn't visit because he loves me - she claimed his heart, long ago. He comes because I am the only one who can extinguish the fire that maddens him. An inferno that would consume her like kindling and turn her to ash.

Tonight he's quieter than usual, and takes me by surprise. Pulling my bedding off with a snap, he shoves me over onto my belly and sheathes himself in me with a grunt, his arm around my neck, half-crushing my windpipe. His boots scrape my ankles, catch and tear my sheets.

Foreplay is for women and virgins. I am neither.

The arm around my throat relaxes enough so that I can breathe, but I hold my breath anyhow, memorizing every sound of pleasure he makes, every sensation I feel, carefully storing them up. They're all I will have in the cold lonely weeks that will follow.

When he finishes he puts an arm around my waist and rolls us onto our sides without unseating himself. The pressure on my throat is gone; his calloused hand moves down to grasp me, pumping roughly. I know that he hates himself for needing this, hates me because I am not her, hates her because she cannot satisfy him the way I can. I am tighter, and hotter, and don't bruise as easily.

Usually he bites my shoulder, but tonight he presses his lips to my neck as gently as a lover would, and this shatters me … My seed covers his hand.

Still without speaking he pulls away from me and throws the coverlet back over me. A rustle of cloth as he puts himself back into his pants, then his boots click on my stone floor and he is gone.

She claimed his heart, but I have the rest.


	2. Shorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No sacrifice is too great - or too small - for love.

Anger had come first, and then desperation, and then grief.

Time did not exist in the dim cell, lit only by the light that trickled  through the metal grate in the ceiling down from the banquet hall above along with rough shouting and guffaws punctuated by ever-longer measures of silence and occasional grunts. He couldn't help but torment himself by trying to decipher every noise – even as he suspected with roiling dread that the reality of what was happening to his companion was far worse than anything he could imagine.

"If you leave the boy alone," the older Saint had said to them, "You can do what you want to me." They had laughed unpleasantly and agreed, going so far as to reluctantly swear unbreakable oaths before their unholy gods.

The boy had struggled as they pulled him away, horrified as he saw the frightening, bright-eyed horde seize this friend by the hair and drag him atop the banquet table. He found his voice and shouted, "No, don't do this!" but they pulled him away. His last sight had been the steady gaze of the wise, kind eyes, letting him go, saying goodbye . . .

Sitting in a corner of the dark cell, he hugged his knees to his chest as he tried to force the sobs back down his throat. "You became my shield," he whispered, "offered yourself to them to protect me. I will avenge you if it takes me the rest of my life."

The silence from above had gone on for a very long time when he heard the scraping sound. It grew louder, then the heavy door swung open with a shriek. Before he could move, they had tossed a sack into the cell and slammed the door again. The tiny barred window slid open. "He was fun," they said, then closed the window and left.

He took a step toward the sack, but a word stopped him. "No." The voice was so broken he barely recognized it.

"Let me help," he said reaching out.

"There is nothing to be done," came the reply, filled with an utter desolation that yet held no reproach.

He stopped, and sat, and waited, his arms wrapped around his knees, reaching out to the huddled wreck with his heart.

An hour passed, then more. Silence filled the cell like dark sand. Light from above began to dim. The older Saint's harsh breathing finally became regular, then inaudible.

He couldn't stand it any more. He reached out and gently touched the huddled form. There was no response.

 _No, please. Don't be dead._

He tugged at a fold of the heavy fabric until an arm was uncovered. Battered, striped with lash marks, the wrist darkly raw from being bound. But the hand was still warm. He could not stop himself from uncovering more, each new sign of abuse and contempt increasing his horror and guilt . It took him a dozen heartbeats of staring at the bloody profile to comprehend the final savagery: the beautiful hair was gone. Hacked away, in places so close that the scalp had bled.

He gave a cry. Somehow this, more than everything else, represented the magnitude of the older Saint's sacrifice. He re-wrapped the cloth and stood, blue-white rage exploding, and punched at the stone wall with all his might, over and over.

 _It should have been me. It should have been me. It should have been me._

Shards of rock flew from under his fists and clattered to the floor. He stared at them, then stooped and lifted one like a stone knife, wide and thin.

He lifted it and sliced. A clump of hair from the crown of his head floated to the floor. Smiling down at his unconscious companion, he continued cutting away, surrounding him wth a corona of feathers.

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
first post 9 May 2004  
revised 1 June 2007  
(c)


	3. Vigil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Saint tends an empty Temple.

Every time he slipped though the high stone arches into the empty temple he felt like a trespasser.

He knew that the others would laugh if he ever admitted his visits. They would point out that, after so many years the absent Saint would most likely return in a coffin - but he, he kept faith, and took care of things. Week after week he wiped dust from the few pieces of furniture, chased the occasional mouse or large spider from the corners. . . The birds he left alone. Soaring so freely through the high windows at the front of the temple, he always imagined that they'd cheer him if he came back.

 _When_ he came back.

Every Sunday night he would sit at the round table in the living area and write a note about what was coming up in the week - when the meetings were, what the workout and bathhouse schedule were, any special banquets. He'd fold the previous week's note into a tiny, precise square and tuck it into his pocket, then place the new note in the center of the table, weighting it down with an antique carved box that had belonged to the absent Saint's Master.

Then he'd sweep the floors and put a fresh flower in the vase on the small table near the bed. Once a week for almost fourteen years: over seven hundred flowers. Enough to covermost of the room in a blanket of petals. The last thing he did every week was change the sheets on the bed.

Many years ago, when he'd been away for several weeks to visit his _sensei_ , bats had nested in the dim recesses of the living area's high ceiling. When he came back everything beneath them was ruined. He'd meant to simply stun the invaders with sound, thinking to relocate them to a cave, but instead his bellow had crushed the frail bodies. The new bedspread was vibrant red, embroidered with a menagerie. The smiling animals were couched in gold thread, their eyes tiny flashing mirrors.

He folded the spread back carefully, then pulled off the unused sheets, rolling them into a neat ball that he would take with him and launder with his own. A few years ago, he had arrived to find the bed slept in, the note moved, wine goblets on the table, and a damp towel on the floor by the bed. His heart really had felt as though it had climbed into this throat, and he wrote a second note with a dinner invitation. But after hours and then days passed he realized that he had been mistaken: one of the other Saints had apparently used the vacant Temple for a shameful assignation.

That set of sheets, he burned.

Tonight he thought of that incident - which had never been repeated - as he sat in a chair at the table, hypnotized by the flame of a candle. So pure, so bright, so warm, its steady glow tried valiantly to fill the large chamber. He knew that the tiny spark could be seen through the tall arched open windows of the Temple, past the Coliseum, all the way down to the entrance of Sanctuary lands, a patient, welcoming beacon.

When the moon finally rose, spilling mocking tongues of cold white light across the stone floor, he blew out the candle and returned with blurred vision to his empty bed.

 

 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As with "Claimed" and "Shorn," the previous ficlets in this series, I had a particular Saint (and Temple) in mind when I wrote this but decided to leave the identity open to reader interpretation. There are a few possibilities, of course, as there are four long-term vacancies in Sanctuary at the beginning of the series, and 7 vacant Temples _after_ Twelve Temples.

first post 22 May 2004  
(b)  1 June 2007


	4. Veil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Saint dances for his lover.

Candle light preceded him into the dark room.

"Don't look yet," he murmured as he dropped a small bag by the doorway, then went to the stereo system on the bookshelves and set the candle he carried in one hand on a speaker. "I want it to be a surprise."

He went to the bag and pulled out a CD. "I think you'll like this," he said. "It's Moroccan. Didn't France colonize them or something?" He put one hand on his hip and puffed at the gauzy veil that covered his eyes. "Or am I getting Algiers and Tangiers mixed up again?"

He placed the silver disc into the CD player, pressed buttons, spun the volume knob. "Ready?" He turned to face the long velvet couch across the shadowed room, holding his arms over his head as he waited for the music.

The single candle provided just enough light to show that he had draped himself in veils: one tied loosely around his waist, one draped across his chest and held up on one shoulder with a gold clasp, and the third over his head, just covering his eyes. His feet were bare, strings of tiny bells wrapped around each ankle. Gold bracelets circled his upper arms.

The music began, a fierce surge and retreat of _oud_ strings laid over a fluid pulse of drums. Savage, primal and erotic, the dance was as well. Not one man in 100,000 could have danced this way dressed as he was without it without eliciting scorn - but he was not like most men. This night he was, even more so than usual, Sexuality itself, a carnal deity like Shiva the Cosmic Dancer, sensual and utterly masculine, displaying his power for an audience of one.

"Would you like more?" he whispered, taking away the gold clasp on his shoulder. The transparent silk slid from his muscled shoulders and chest with a sigh, clinging to his body as if reluctant to leave.

The music became simpler, serpentine, and he swayed, enticing, his rising flesh straining to break through the thin cloth. Finally he spun and pulled the veil from his waist, tossing it aside. He stood still and as the music built he arched his back, hands framing his bold shaft. Back and back he bent, until his shoulders touched the floor; then he nimbly went onto his hands and knees and feline, he crawled to the couch. He crouched, offering his muscular haunches for the taking.

As the music ended the dancer rasped, panting, "How was that? Did it turn you on? Ready to make love to me now?"

There was no reply.

After a moment the sole inhabitant of the Temple threw himself on the empty couch, tearing the third veil away, punching at the cushions and sobbing, even wilder in his grief than in his passion. . . . for after all, not only does a veil hide the dancer from the audience, it also hides the audience from the dancer.

 .

.

first posted May 2004  
(b) 1 June 2007  
\------------------------------------

The music I had in mind was _Master Musicians of Jajouka_ , by Talvin Singh with Bachir Attar. Attar and his sons are traditional Moroccan musicians, and Singh has been an innovator in the fusion of world music with electronicia/dance music for a long time.

I want to thank everyone who's been giving their guesses about who the various pieces are about - it's been fascinating.

My main intent was not to pose a riddle to you the readers ( well, maybe a LITTLE bit), but to capture a very particular emotion in time. My greatest wish is not so much that people figure out who I had in mind when I wrote the stories, but that you simply read and enjoy.


	5. Sarabada

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Saint makes a final trip to the cemetery.

 

The extra-long black limousine moves though the cemetery without a sound, as though even its engine is reverent. Through flat lawns tiled with modest slabs, around ancient, gnarled oaks and beeches, past mossy age-stained mausoleums and sculptures of angels twined with hundred-year old roses, it finally stops at the end of the road in a section where dozens of large, un-inscribed obelisks of marble rise against the dark woods at the edge of the property.

The doors open and several teenaged children get out, somber in demeanor despite their oddly-colored hair and discreet earrings and tattoos. They hurry to assist an old woman with ornately-braided grey hair. She is followed by many younger children, wide-eyed and silent.

Finally, an old man's leg emerges, and a gloved hand grips the edge of the opening. Two of the older boys reach in to help him - but he shakes them off with a growl and pulls himself stiffly out of the limo. After a struggle he stands, swaying in pain but still proud. He wears an expensive dark overcoat and a tan muffler over his black suit. His noble bearing and elegance are only enhanced by his age-chiseled face, dark glasses, and long white hair, which has, except for one memorable exception in his youth when he had sheared it in mourning, been uncut his entire life.

His wife - for the woman with the grey braid was such - takes his hand. He squeezes it absently, then calls to one of the children.

"Elia-chan, will you hold my glasses while I visit?"

"Yes Great-grandfather," the little girl whispers in awe, staring unabashed as he removes the glasses to reveal eyes as white and blind as the graves surrounding them.

Then he turns and, without hesitation, walks to the semicircle of obelisks.

"How does he know where to go, great-grandmother?" one of the children asks, speaking close to her ear to compensate for her deafness.

"Today he must be seeing without eyes," she says tenderly.

Now he is talking to the air, bowing from time to time or embracing the emptiness.

"After so long, he is so happy to finally see them, be in their midst again at last," she continues. Tears run from her eyes like beads from a broken necklace.

They see him cup his hand on empty air. His voice carries to them in the suddenly still air, as he says with a hoarse sob, "I have  never forgotten you. _Never_."

"Can you hear anything he's saying?" the old woman asks.

"No, Great-grandmother, he's too far away," the boy with the blue hair says gently. His ring finger is tattooed with a thin wedding band.

The old man's next words are also clear.

"Soon?" he asks, and it is a cry from the depth of his heart. " _How_ soon?"

His wife and great-grandchildren see him nod his head, then turn and begin to shuffle back to them, reluctant and blind again, unsure of his direction.

Elia runs to him and takes his hand. "I'll help you, Great-grandfather," she says with a smile, and guides him back to his seat in the limo, where he will remain among them for a little while longer.

 

\-------------------------------------------

For those unfamilair with the term, "Sarabada" is an archaic and overly-formal word of parting. I think that the closest word in English would be "farewell." It's used most often at the point of death, when you don't expect to see the person you're speaking to ever again - at least not in this life. Needless to say, it gets used in St Seiya a LOT.

Thanks to **Nalan** for a 4 am beta.

first post 29 May 04  
(b) 1 June 2007


	6. Observation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two Saints meet in the mountains.

 

We observe the shirtless man sitting by the waterfall. He stays so still, for so long, that it seems as though time itself has frozen. His calm, unblinking gaze is always on our prison, and it is only because the decades have gradually threaded his mahogany hair with silver and turned his body to leather that we know that a hundred or more years have passed. Such dedication! So rare, and so pointless ... for, like the man, we too are infinitely patient. We know that he is no painted statue; his chest does indeed rise and fall, and his eyelids blink - although with long minutes between. We wonder: are his thoughts as glacial as his movement? Can anything stir a heart that beats such a dirge?

He is human. We will find a way to punish him some day.

And then - it happens again. A shimmer in the air behind him, a movement that we have seen less than a score of times. In a moment the tall visitor in dark blue robes appears. Our watcher does not turn: behind him, the visitor's hands go to his robe, fingers flying to undo the buttons - and the seated man's lips move, as if counting the unbuttonings: _sixteen, seventeen, eighteen ..._ When his robe is open (exposing skin even lighter than his tumultuous, silver-green hair) he steps forward to sit behind our watcher - who, as always, leans back against him, pressing the strand of beads between them. The robed one curves around him in intimate embrace, slow movements choreographed by years of familiarity. Hands over hands, faces side by side, they look in the direction of our mountain sepulchre. Both radiate joy in this brief moment they have together, like the sun edging a glowering thunderhead with glory. The visitor presses his mouth to the watcher's shoulder, whispering. The watcher smiles faintly.

We writhe in hatred and envy. Will Time's flight now slow even _more_ for them, allowing an eternity to pass between each fierce wingbeat they spend together? Why should they walk free, speak, touch - while we are entombed in granite by the spell cast by their bitch Goddess?

At last the visitor pulls away, swiftly stands, closes his robe, and vanishes without a word. Our watcher bows his head for a moment: when he raises it to us once more we see the last traces of emotion fade.This time, as every other time, there was no entreaty to stay yet a while longer.

It occurs to us that his visitor is like a wild thing that glides unpredictably from the forest to make a brief gift of its presence ... perhaps feeding from the ever-patient hand of one who has earned its trust. Proud and untamable. A wolf, or a hawk.

We realize that such animals mate for life. And perhaps beyond.

In our prison, we smile.

 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

first post 8 Aug 2004  
(c) 1 June 2007


	7. Quiver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lesson in archery.
> 
> Seventh in the series: less bitter, more sweet. For musouka, a favorite quirk with a Valentine's bow.

The breeze that stirred his hair as he walked up the hill towards the archery range was just warm enough to have scoured most of the snow from the ground, although it would be another month before the still-desolate landscape surrendered itself fully to green delirium.

As he crested the hill he caught sight of his teacher-to-be, standing below him next to a bale of hay. Opposite them, across the field, were circular targets of colorful concentric rings. The student paused to watch.

Unaware of his audience, the teacher flexed his arms - despite the chill of the day he wore only light workout pants and a sleeveless leather vest laced up the front - made an adjustment to his bow (a large one almost as tall as he was), and then, in a fluid, flawless motion pulled an arrow from the quiver, put it to the bow, pulled back, let fly, and had another on the way before the first had hit the target. And another. And another. Seven arrows in all flew from his hands, with such speed and precision it seemed like the same arrow sent seven times. Seven arrows sank into the bull's-eye in austere ikebana.

The student, in a purely objective way, admired the beauty of such a display, the discipline it suggested. It was just such a sight that had initially given him the idea to ask for lessons. The idea might have remained just a passing thought, coming and going with as little consequence as a leaf on the surface of a river, had it not been followed by a wisp of fear: fear of asking the teacher for lessons, fear of being an inadequate student - other fears he could not name. No matter. The fear must be banished: he was a Saint of Athena, and so in archery, as in all other things, he would excel. The challenge of learning in and of itself would be useful.

"I'm ready," he called as he walked down the slope. Gray-brown grasses crunched under his boots.

The teacher looked up, then said coldly, "Your hair should be tied back. Did you bring anything you could use to do that?" Without waiting for an answer he turned away and strode across the field towards the target

"No." The student stood at the bottom of the hill, watching as the teacher removed the arrows quickly and carefully.

As he came back towards the bale of hay, the teacher pulled the leather laces from his vest with a snap, tossing them to the student as he passed. "Use these. And tuck in your shirt. Loose clothing is a danger." He put the arrows down on the bale and opened a large flat leather case. "Next time I will not give a lesson unless you are adequately prepared."

Chastised, the student tied back his hair and tucked his tunic into his pants.

The teacher held up a short bow with curling tips. "This is a recurve bow," he said, "it's based on the ones the Parthians used in warfare." He added almost grudgingly, "It seemed an appropriate choice for you." He did not, however, hand it to his student but instead placed it next to the case.

A response seemed to be required. "Thank you."

"Many people," the teacher said, taking a new set of arrows from the case and sighting along them, "think that all there is to archery is grabbing an arrow and pulling a string." He examined the feathers on the arrows that had passed his initial inspection and set some aside, apparently seeing a subtle defect. "If you want to be a mediocre archer, feel free to approach it that way, but don't expect me to waste time with you."

Feeling slightly puzzled - after all, who would ask for lessons if they were not serious? - the student nodded solemnly. He had never seen such intensity from this man. Not that this Saint was naturally meek or unprepossessing - but today his presence was unusually authoritative. Some would no doubt find it intimidating, but of course the student did not. "I am here to learn all that you offer to teach me," he said.

The teacher looked at him directly for the first time, and made a long, silent assessment. Without preamble he then said, "The shooting sequence is stance, nock, set, predraw, draw, anchor, aim, release, follow through. Each of these must be practiced until they flow in seamless sequence, without thinking."

The student waited.

"What did I just say?" the teacher asked.

"Stance, nock, set, predraw, draw, anchor, aim, release, follow through," the student said smoothly. "Practice becomes instinct and perfection."

The teacher nodded. "Good. Now observe." Picking up the small bow and an arrow, he said, "Since sense perception of this imperfect world is required for archery, you'll need to use your eyes. Please don't destroy my targets."

There was just enough warmth in the voice that the student knew that this was meant as humor.

"Stance is how you stand in relation to the target." The teacher fit the end of the arrow on the string of the bow. "Nock means to put the notched end of the arrow onto the bowstring."

As he watched the teacher the student found himself with the thought that the teacher's long fingers held the arrow with respect.

The teacher continued, "There are gadgets to ensure consistent nocking, drawing, and aiming. I don't use any of them. Traditional bare finger technique is harder: that's what makes it more interesting. Depending on yourself instead of tricks."

The student said nothing.

Without pulling the arrow back, the teacher began to raise the bow. "The 'set' is placing your hands in position on the bow and the string. Check your stance, the arrow, the bow. Stop if anything doesn't feel right."

He began to pull back the string. "In the draw, proper form is key. Alignment of the bones in the bow arm is crucial. See how mine are in a straight line? That will keep my bow steady and absorb the recoil. Without that, even perfect aim will be worthless. And the elbow of my draw arm is high, at eye level."

He was absolutely still, his upper body a sculpture radiating perfectly controlled power.

"Anchor," he said, as he continued to pull back until the fingers holding the bowstring were at the side of his cheek. "Always pull to the same spot. Then focus on the target and aim. Finally - " Suddenly the arrow disappeared, as if the bowstring had passed through his fingers. His hand moved back slightly, fingers curled by his ear. "Release and follow through. One instant the arrow is there, the next - it's gone, and everything has changed." He lowered the bow and turned to the student. "Ready to try?"

The student moved into position.

"Now." The teacher pointed at the student's feet. "Imagine a line at right angles to the target. Your toes should touch that line. If your stance is correct, you can shoot with your eyes closed and actually hit the target. Although in your case – " he shrugged, and the corner of his mouth lifted with a small, wry motion.

"That was not how you stood when you shot," the student stated.

The teacher nodded. "Good observation. I used a slightly more open stance, but my upper body was still at right angles to the target."

The student imitated the teacher.

"No," the teacher said immediately, "Your feet are in the right place, but you're standing too heavy and your knees are locked. And your hips are too straight."

"Heavy?" the student said. "How else can I stand? There is gravity here, isn't there?" the student said, trying for some humor of his own to dissipate the tension that was building between them.

"Just relax your knees and tip your pelvis forward a bit," the teacher said. At the blank look on his student's face he flung out his arm. "I can't explain it more clearly than that!"

"Then find another way to teach me, or find me another teacher," the student replied, beginning to feel the first wisps of doubt.

Puzzled blue eyes met angry green.

"Fine." He stepped close behind him, pressing leg against leg, chest against back, then pushed with his knees to loosen his student's stance. "See? You need to be light."

At this proximity, the student felt a sensation of falling that he had never felt before, and had no word for. Those less lofty might have labeled it panic.

"And here," the teacher reached around to put his hand on the center of the student's abdomen, "Relax everywhere but here. Tension here will unify your legs and torso into one unit, which minimizes your movement, lowers your center of gravity, and keeps your ribs down so that you don't arch your back when you shoot. It'll also stabilize you on windy days."

 _The hand - !_ Everything in the surrounding landscape seemed to converse on that firm pressure. The student felt as though his skin was bubbling and blackening under his clothes.

Then suddenly it was gone. "You should have it now," the teacher said.

And so it went.

"Relax your grip more. No need to strangle the bow."

"Any looser and I will drop it!"

Through Nock and Set and Predraw, they collided with each other, the one acting as though he had never taught anyone before, the other as though he had never studied anything before, both filling with unfamiliar emotions, more and more aware of being alone together in that austere late winter field.

"You're pulling back too fast," the teacher said impatiently.

"Show me the right way then," the student answered. "That _is_ what a teacher does."

Reprimanded by a sharpness in the student's tone, the teacher paused. "Tell me - what muscle groups do you think are the most important for an archer?"

"The arm," the student said firmly, pleased that he could finally offer the correct answer.

"Wrong," the teacher said, and pulled off his vest. "Stand behind me and watch my back. In the predraw." The muscles rose and fell like storm clouds, "And now the draw." The roils tightened and bunched - then suddenly flattened out, back to smooth, tan skin.

"You try," he said, turning and handing the student the bow. After a moment, he said, "No, you're still not getting it." He took back the bow. "Stand behind me again, only this time put your hands on my shoulder blades. As I draw, pay special attention to the rhomboid and levator scapulae muscles."

The student tried to pay attention, but it was disconcerting to feel another body's power under his cold hands. He had never been so acutely aware that the other Saints were made of bone and muscle.

"I'm increasing back tension at full draw," the teacher was saying, "yet notice that the arrow isn't moving any further back."

Then the arrow was gone, and the teacher was holding the bow out. "Your turn."

He tried, but he was failing.

"Again."

He couldn't understand what was wanted. Or why he was there. Or why he wanted to succeed.

"Again."

Tersely, after the third arrow the teacher said, "Stop. Let's try something. Take _your_ shirt off." He added, as in an afterthought. "If you can't understand the draw, you will never master archery. It was the key to my brother's technique."

The student shivered once as the teacher stepped behind him, and then the hands, feeling larger than they looked, were on his back. "Tighten the superspinatus muscle, here," he said, tracing the area. "Don't worry about aiming this time." After a moment, "Good. Better. But when you release, don't 'let' go of the string. That throws your aim off and makes the arrow fishtail. Just relax your fingers until the string pushes them out of the way." Still standing behind him, the teacher reached around and held his wrist, adjusting the bow. "If you hold the bow like this, you can sight along the arrow." The teacher's tanned arm pressed against his pale one.

"I didn't realize it was so wrong," the student said. He wasn't cold any more.

"It isn't," his teacher said quietly. "I'm forgetting that everything's most difficult at the beginning, when it's all new. But I want to teach you, if you truly want to learn."

Neither moved, and yet something shifted. As the teacher stepped back and away from him, the leather tie in the student's hair, loosened by the demonstrations, fell free. A mischievous breeze, still chill but smelling of spring, surrounded them, lifting the student's long blond hair in a swirling cape that reached out and tangled around the bowstring.

"Why are you so angry with me?" the student asked as the teacher started to pull the strands free.

"I'm not angry with you," the teacher murmured, and then, "I'm angry with everything else." In that instant, as the teacher looked up and saw into his student's vast and terrible soul - in that instant, as the student, still afraid, finally welcomed his fear - in that instant, the arrow found its targets.

 **The End**

\-----------------

Thank you to **toxictattoo** for a beautiful cap of an archery scene from _Meine Leibe_ which inspired this fic and led to an image that wouldn't leave me alone.

Many archery books were consulted when writing this piece, the best being _Precision Archery_ , edited by Steve Ruis and Claudia Stevenson.

First draft 28 Sept 04 - first post 8 Dec 04  
(10)  1 June 2007  
\---


End file.
